Pringle, glancing about, noted a quiet, white-haired man who had been standing at the side of the room. He beckoned and introduced this individual to Woodstock.
“Mr. Carlton Carmody,” announced Pringle. “Our chief architect. A very capable man, Mr. Woodstock. Very capable.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Carmody,” said Woodstock, in a friendly tone. “Any man responsible for the plans of so excellent a building as this great hotel is indeed worthy of commendation.”
“I did not design the Hotel Gigantic,” remarked Carmody, with a smile. “It was the work of Hubert Craft.”
“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed Woodstock, turning to Pringle. “I remember now. A wonderful architect, Craft. Interesting chap, too, though eccentric. I understood he died a few months ago.”
“He did,” informed Pringle. “Overturned in a pleasure boat on Long Island Sound. Poor old Craft — he was our chief architect for more than seven years. Long experience before that. He was connected with the city for many years.”
Felix Cushman was tapping lightly on the table. His dark eyes were directed toward Pringle. The president of the association nodded.
“This is a directors’ meeting,” declared Cushman bluntly. “Our time is very valuable tonight. You will excuse me if I seem brusque, Mr. Woodstock. I believe in efficiency. You have our prospectus there, Pringle? Will you read it, please?”
Dobson Pringle brought out a large document from his portfolio. He began to read aloud. Selfridge Woodstock listened thoughtfully, his chin resting in his hand. Felix Cushman, firm in gaze, watched the old financier intently.
THE document concerned the reorganization of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association, dependent entirely upon the cooperation of interests controlled by Selfridge Woodstock of Chicago. With the support of the Western financier it would be possible to institute a building campaign on a vaster scale than any previously attempted.
When Pringle had finished his reading, Selfridge Woodstock turned to his secretary. He asked for notes which Crozer had been making. Referring to these, Woodstock put forward questions.
It was Felix Cushman who gave answer. One by one, the chairman of directors defined the clauses, while Crozer made new notations. When this discussion had been completed, Selfridge Woodstock eyed the black-haired man squarely and put an important question.
“What,” he asked, “are the available funds of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association?”
“The list,” said Cushman to Pringle. The president produced it. Woodstock studied the figures.
“Fifty million dollars,” declared Woodstock. “These are ready funds — at least negotiable securities which can be promptly liquidated?”
“Positively,” announced Cushman.
“That is all I care to know, gentlemen,” decided Woodstock. “Crozer, how much time do we have to catch the Bar Harbor Express?”
“Thirty minutes, sir.”
Then Selfridge Woodstock arose and smiled. He noted the anxious look on the faces watching him. His smile broadened.
“I am going to my Maine lodge tonight, gentlemen,” he said. “This appointment was planned as a little stopover on the way.
“Perhaps you may be surprised to know that I do business in such short time; but that happens to be the way of my choice. Your proposition suits me. I shall be glad to invest the fifty million dollars which you require to proceed with the new enterprise.”
A gasp passed around the group.
These men had expected a refusal from the financier, so quickly had his decision been made. Instead, Selfridge Woodstock had accepted their terms without question!
Words of appreciation were coming from all sides. Selfridge Woodstock, donning coat and hat with Crozer’s aid, was still smiling at the sensation which he had created. He shook hands around the group; then added a few words.
“My word is my bond, gentlemen,” declared Woodstock. “I shall be in Maine one week; then to Chicago by way of Canada. Send the papers to my office there; send your representative. I shall go through with the deal exactly as you have proposed it.”
Nodding his good-bye, Selfridge Woodstock left the room, accompanied by Crozer. The financier’s last glimpse was one of beaming faces, among which those of Dobson Pringle and Felix Cushman predominated.
SELFRIDGE WOODSTOCK chuckled as he walked along the silent corridor with his secretary. When they reached the elevators, Crozer pushed the button, and smiled at his employer’s good humor. Selfridge Woodstock loved the element of surprise, and he utilized it even in the most important transactions.
“They didn’t know,” said the financier, “that I was sold on their proposition before I came here. Fifty million dollars! No wonder it took their breath, Crozer. They have that amount themselves, but it represents the investment of several moneyed men.”
A man had stepped from another corridor while Selfridge Woodstock was speaking. His hat was pulled low over his features. His hands were in his pockets.
The metal door of the elevator shaft slid open. Woodstock and Crozer boarded the car; the stranger followed them. The door slid shut. The stranger brought his hand from his coat pocket. Something glimmered as he delivered a ferocious blow to the hack of the operator’s head.
As the attendant fell, the ruffian turned and covered Woodstock and Crozer with the weapon he had used. It was a large revolver.
Instinctively, the financier and his secretary raised their hands. They saw a fierce, unshaven face confronting them — features which marked this man as the daring criminal whom the New York police now sought — Socks Mallory, right arm of The Red Blot!
With his left hand, Socks managed the elevator control. The car shot down the shaft, floor after floor. The swift descent decreased in speed. Socks Mallory brought the car to a stop and opened the door.
Woodstock and his secretary found themselves staring into the muzzles of three more revolvers. They realized, from the darkness outside the car, that they were at the very bottom of the shaft,
“Get out,” growled Socks Mallory, thrusting his gun forward. “Make it fast!”
The two men walked from the car, stepping down to a cement floor. A small opening yawned ahead of them. With mobsters jostling them with guns, the prisoners were thrust into a narrow, descending passageway.
They could hear Socks Mallory talking to another man behind them. The gang leader was giving instructions. There was a grunted response; a few seconds later, the elevator door shut.
Flashlights glimmered, to show a passageway through solid rock.
With Socks Mallory prodding from in back, the prisoners were hurried forward.
The Red Blot had spread tonight. The minions of that mighty crook had spirited away the richest financier of the Middle West, from the midst of the Hotel Gigantic!
CHAPTER XIII
THE ULTIMATUM
THE departure of Selfridge Woodstock and his secretary had left the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association in high fettle. Felix Cushman, the sharp-visaged chairman of the board, was prompt to state the importance of what had occurred.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this means absolute success to our projects. By acquiring the cooperation of Selfridge Woodstock, by gaining his consent to duplicate the amount of our resources, we have assured ourselves against unexpected competition. Our president, Mr. Pringle, can tell you that.”
Pringle was nodding solemnly.
“Yes,” he asserted, “there is every reason to believe that Woodstock intended to put his money into building operations, here in New York. I have dealt with Woodstock before; I knew him to be a man of quick and definite decisions. We have gained Woodstock’s support; moreover, we will not lose him, now that he has decided to go with us.”